


A cup of tea to start your day

by storylinecontinuum



Series: Historical USUK [4]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Historical Hetalia, M/M, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:33:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27858382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storylinecontinuum/pseuds/storylinecontinuum
Summary: His feet took him down the familiar hallways of the residence and he could hear the clatter of silverware long before he’d reached the dining room. Stepping over the threshold, he was instantly acknowledged by two identical greetings.“Good morning.”“Good morning.”Alfred felt a scowl form on his lips.“You know I always thought there should be an ‘r’ somewhere in there.”
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia)
Series: Historical USUK [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1814824
Comments: 2
Kudos: 31





	A cup of tea to start your day

For the past one week, Alfred had begun his mornings with the smell of tea.

Yes, tea. The smell would waft over him as he entered the White House family kitchen where the staff were hard at work preparing an unusually large breakfast. Why was he in the kitchen you ask? Well, you see, Alfred was something of a big eater which didn’t really translate well at the breakfast table, especially next to the Roosevelts’ impeccable manners. Or rather their consideration for etiquette, as Eleanor would correct him.

_“It may be bad etiquette,”_ she always said. _“But it’s bad manners if we let you leave this table still hungry. Now sit back down and eat your food!”_ And Alfred would of course do that but he would still burn with embarrassment over it.

So to save some face, he had made it a habit to go to the kitchens beforehand and, with the amused staff’s permission, to eat part of the food necessary to sate his appetite there. 

Recently, however, his enthusiasm over that particular morning ritual had been diluted by the sight of a steaming teapot perched on one of the counters. He would usually come in just before it was whisked away and he would proceed to glumly force down the plate of toast, eggs and corned beef hash that had been prepared for him in advance.

It wasn’t that much of a hassle if he had to be honest with himself. And yet he had come to dislike surprises recently, he admitted to himself as he prodded his still tender side, the pain there flaring up vengefully and making him retract his hand with a wince.

The reaction was quickly stifled before any of the staff could notice. 

After a few more minutes of stewing in his thoughts in the cozy warmth of the kitchen and pulling his toes out of harm’s way whenever a cook barreled past, he peeled away from the counter and ran his hand through his hair with a sigh. 

His feet took him down the familiar hallways of the residence and he could hear the clatter of silverware long before he’d reached the dining room. Stepping over the threshold, he was instantly acknowledged by two identical greetings.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

Alfred felt a scowl form on his lips.

“You know I always thought there should be an ‘r’ somewhere in there.”

His remark earned him a scoff and a good-natured chuckle that was a tone or two deeper than the former. It was all the attention he got before the British prime minister – still in that ridiculous Chinese dragon gown of his – turned back to his breakfast and Arthur, next to him, did the same after taking a sip from his tea.

Alfred’s scowl deepened. Tea for breakfast in the White House. Admittedly, the Roosevelts were still true to the far superior beverage that was coffee but Franklin himself had been behind his desk for hours by now which left Alfred with the task of entertaining their late riser guests. 

_Oh joy_ , he thought wryly as he pulled out a chair and sat down. His attention strayed back to England who was scarfing down all the eggs and meat he could get his hands on and occasionally washing it down with his tea. The sugar bowl next to his elbow was half empty and Alfred had a pretty good idea where all that sugar had gone.

Before he could make a snide remark about it however, Churchill seemed to beat him to it.

“Easy there my boy,” The man chuckled, turning toward the other nation. “Our American friends might just think we’re not ‘haute monde’ with the way you’re wolfing it all down.”

His thin brows twitched in a teasing manner and he hid his smirk halfway behind the usual glass of what he called ‘mouthwash’ – a dash of whisky mixed with soda.

“If you must know,” Arthur snapped back. “I represent the common people first and foremost. As such I eat in the name of the people.” He waved his fork to make his point.

“And keep that disgusting French away from the table.”

Churchill graced him with a disbelieving look.

“’In the name of the people.’ A high maintenance mascot is what you are.”

“Sod off.”

Alfred listened to the whole exchange in mild horror.

He loved Roosevelt with all his heart but by god, he couldn’t imagine being this informal with him. Churchill, though, didn’t seem to have any such reservations and surprisingly, Roosevelt didn’t seem to mind it at all. It had been a week since the impromptu British embassy had set up home in the White House and the two leaders, much to poor Eleanor’s dismay, were getting along like a house on fire… which was a really bad idiom to use on second thought.

He shook his head and reached for the jug of orange juice. If he had a say in it he would be having coffee but Eleanor had been adamant about him cutting down on the caffeine while he was still on painkillers.

He was just about to consider breaking his promise to her (god knows he needed that coffee) when an obscene sound reached his ears and he froze. His eyes moved stiffly across the table.

The sound in question was courtesy of none other than England who was moaning as he chewed on a piece of creamed beef, eyes closed in pure bliss. The image stirred Alfred into action, prompting him to quickly cover his face to hide the blush that had sprouted there.

Damn him, he did it every morning! Was he really that starved? Alfred was about to comment on it when he was suddenly taken back to the first morning of the prime minister’s visit. 

They had all been gathered around the table as Churchill had noticed the two eggs he’d been served with his breakfast and he’d turned to the first lady to say: _‘Why, we only have one egg a week at home!’_

The lighthearted remark had cut Alfred to the bone.

He could remember going rigid and glancing at England at that moment to find him looking off to the side, his face unreadable.

Alfred’s mouth clicked shut. Somewhat ashamed, he reached for the bowl of fruit in front of and set an apple next to his toast and eggs. Churchill followed the movement and scrutinized Alfred’s plate, his own being artfully cluttered in comparison.

The prime minister raised a questioning brow.

“Is that all you’re going to eat, my boy?” he asked, tilting his heavy chin in Alfred’s direction.

“Yes.” Alfred said tersely. Across the table Arthur’s lips twisted into a smirk.

“Still sneaking off to the kitchens for preliminary breakfast?” he teased, his canines flashing.

Another blush flooded Alfred’s cheeks. Nothing slipped past Arthur it seemed, least of all the habits that Alfred retained from his childhood.

“Shut up.” He groused as he shot Arthur a glare.

From there breakfast proceeded smoothly, mostly because Alfred kept his sour mood to himself. Churchill and Arthur made idle conversation, throwing a jab in there every so often and letting Alfred pick at his food in peace. It was hard not to notice that he was the wet blanket at the table. And that didn’t sit well with him at all.

He suppressed a sigh and stared at the eggs on his plate, sprouting little beady pools of grease at the corners.

It wasn’t Arthur’s fault he was stressed. Heck it wasn’t even his casual attitude that put Alfred on edge. It was stress itself that was making him stressed and the fact that it felt like it was closing in around him these days, setting up reminders around every corner:

The newspapers. The ache in his side. His people’s dread.

The long nauseating talks about strategy and tactics as the walls around them sunk deeper into the smoke from the two Brits’ cigars and the late hours crawled toward morning. The maps that were hung up in the Monroe Room and reminded Alfred just how isolated he _wasn’t_ , dotted with lines that snaked out to foreign shores and painted roads over which his men would march to their deaths.

It was all getting to him.

And it wasn’t just himself he was worried about - a small treacherous voice in the back of his head reminded him that he was actually addicted to the smell of tea in the morning and his anger and frustration at it came from the fear of letting it go.

The truth was that whenever his eyes found England’s these days, all he could see were the newspaper headlines. About France, about Poland, about Denmark. …How was he supposed to cope with that?

He sank further back in his chair.

As if sensing his plunging mood, Arthur paused in eating his food and fixed Alfred with a worried look. Alfred noted with fascination the little creases it sprinkled over his brow. 

Arthur’s eyes raked him from head to toe before finally settling on his waist, right where his shirt tucked into his slacks.

“How’s the wound, lad?” Arthur asked, his voice quieter than usual.

Alfred mustered the strength to shrug.

“Same as yesterday,” he mumbled. “Still stings when I touch it.”

Arthur seemed to ruminate on that for a moment before speaking up again.

“It’ll pass soon.” He reassured him with a nod. “We’re made to withstand much worse, our ilk.”

Alfred looked up to give him a helpless look. He already knew that. He had experienced a war many times worse than the last World War. And yet the very fact that England felt the need to comfort him made it sound like he had something much more horrid ahead of him.

“I guess we are,” was his pathetic response. He couldn’t help but notice that Churchill was paying very close attention to their exchange. In fact it almost seemed as though the prime minister’s eyes were twinkling – the same way they always did when his restless mind was concocting a scheme that only he himself was privy to.

At length, the man rolled his glass of whisky soda between his fingers, enigmatic little smile in place, and suddenly dived into a remark as if there had never been a pause at the table at all.

“I hear your boys at Pearl Harbor didn’t go home for Christmas,” he told Alfred.

Alfred scrunched his brows, not really sure where Churchill was going with this.

“They were ordered to stay behind,” he answered. “We were scared-“ He clenched his jaw. “ _worried_ about another attack.”

Churchill didn’t seem to acknowledge his slip.

“Still.” Churchill waved his hand. “A demonstration of strong spirit is always beneficial in the long run. And your boys are up to the task.”

He finished with a knowing smile and Alfred caught himself smiling back despite everything. Churchill’s unwavering trust in him was starting to wear down his reservations. It had done the same with Roosevelt and now the eccentric prime minister was starting to grow on him as well.

It reminded him of that that chilly evening on the South Portico a few days back. Thousands of people had left their homes on Christmas Eve to come and see the Christmas tree being lit – a tradition that had been moved from Lafayette Park for the first time in years. 

The crowds had been huddled together, frightened but hopeful. They were at war. But then Churchill had made his speech and like a spell, some of that hope had bloomed into optimism.

“Let the children have their night of fun and laughter,” He had said to the 15,000 onlookers gathered on the other side the fence. “Let us share to the full in their unstinted pleasure before we turn again to the stern tasks in the year that lies before us.”

Alfred remembered how his fingers had tightened around Arthur’s hand, nestled in his own.

“Are we gonna be okay?” He’d asked, just as the tree had burst into a million lights.

Arthur’s hand had squeezed back.

“Yes,” he’d said, “yes, we’re going to be okay.”

That same sentiment had been echoed by Churchill in his speech to Congress the very next day:

“The task which has been set is not above our strength, its pangs and trials are not beyond our endurance.”

He smiled at the memory. In some ways, he was glad to have the man in DC. Glad to have them both.

Breakfast concluded in higher spirits after that. Alfred was still glum under his smiles but at least England and Churchill’s chats were easier on his ears. Churchill would be leaving for Canada tomorrow although England himself had declared that he was going to stay. Alfred couldn’t fathom why. But in the end he would be grateful for it.

Some few days later, on New Year’s Day, they accompanied their leaders to Mount Vernon and Arthur held his hand again as the wreath was placed over Washington’s grave. They’d been here, him and Arthur, less than three years ago during the Royals’ North American tour when Arthur had visited with his King and Queen.

Back then Arthur had confessed to being afraid. At the time the war had been but a premonition but now it was more real than ever and it was Alfred who was afraid. His military was in shambles, Europe was in shambles and his side still ached as a grim reminder of what Japan’s might was capable of in the east.

But Alfred was not alone. That same evening they - together with diplomats from several other Allied countries - were going to sign a joint declaration, promising that none of them would sign a separate peace and that they would all fight together.

Even more importantly, next to him, exuding comfort that was almost tangible, was England’s proud straight-backed figure. Holding Alfred’s hand despite all the suffering and pain and fear he himself had had to endure.

No, Alfred decided then. He was not alone.

And he wasn’t going to let anyone down, come hell or high water.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. This fic is based on Churchill’s visit to the US in December of 1941. Churchill was the only one lodged in the White House for the duration of the visit despite arriving with a sizeable delegation and the visit itself was supposed to last for just a couple of days but those couple of days stretched into weeks, putting quite a strain on the first lady.
> 
> There is really much I could talk about here - like the fact that Churchill's dragon robe is a real thing or his amusing relationship with Roosevelt. The two apparently got on together swimmingly, with Roosevelt later sending a letter to Churchill saying: “It is fun to be in same decade with you.” But I'm afraid the notes will get longer than the fic itself so I'll recommend you read up about it if you're interested. There are a few excellent articles online, one of which served as the inspiration for this fic.
> 
> 2\. The words Eleanor Roosevelt says to Alfred are of course not quoted but they are based on a quote ascribed to her. Unfortunately reliable sources are really hard to come by for these things. Same goes for Churchill’s egg quote but this is fiction so I’ll assume he did say it.
> 
> 3\. Churchill was indeed a late riser – because he was most active in the evening and during the late hours of the night, he liked to lounge in his room until 11 AM. I assume Arthur would synchronize his own schedule to Churchill’s, even though the poor President himself couldn’t afford the same luxury. The ‘mouthwash’ mixture mentioned in the fic was also a real thing. It was how Churchill preferred to start his day though of course, he had tea for breakfast as well.
> 
> 4\. If you caught that reference to the burning of the White House, then we should obviously be friends.
> 
> 5\. The three nations Alfred thinks of when he ruminates on how worried he is are not random. Many European countries were occupied at the start of the war but I’ve chosen to mention these three because I imagine Alfred to have a closer relationship with them.
> 
> France is fairly obvious and then there’s Denmark for whom I blame my friend elfpen. And finally there’s Poland who I chose for the same reason people headcanon Prussia and America to be close - the prominent figures that contributed to the success of the American Revolutionary War, in this case Casimir Pulaski and Tadeusz Kościuszko. Pulaski in particular is known as “the father of the American cavalry” and I think I’m justified in headcanoning that during the war America learned cavalry tactics from Poland and they became close in the process.
> 
> 6\. The war Alfred compares WW1 with is his Civil War. It’s the bloodiest war in American history to this day, with five times the losses of WW1. Even WW2’s staggering number of around 400 000 dead Americans doesn’t come close to the 600 000 losses of the Civil War.
> 
> 7\. Finally, I’d like to talk a bit about why I decided to write this fic. I wanted to explore Alfred’s feelings going into the war. The US really wasn’t ready to go into any kind of war at that stage – its military was ill-equipped, neglected during the isolation and undermanned for the job. So America was in fact relying on Britain to keep the enemy at bay while it built up its manpower and mobilized its industrial might for wartime production.
> 
> Fear of the war was also not something that only manifested after Pearl Harbor but it definitely reached a boiling point following the attack. Because of fears that the enemy would take advantage of the holiday and attack again, the servicemen at Pearl Harbor all had their Christmas leave cancelled until December 26th. So I personally think Alfred was very afraid at the start of the war, even if he interprets it as stress. Arthur was also afraid at first but it doesn’t show here because he’s already been hardened by the two years he’s spent fighting.


End file.
